Thank You for Listening(73)

Simple as that.

Sewanee turned and walked away.

“I’m sorry,” he said and from the nearness of his voice, she could tell he was following her. “You asked me and I told you the truth. I don’t want–I can’t lie to you anymore about anything. Whatever the consequences.”

She said nothing.

He continued, “But while, yes, that’s how it started, that’s obviously not how it ended.”

Sewanee fired back, “Right. She didn’t come back to the table, did she?” She felt like such an idiot. Such a pathetic idiot. She’d been wondering what this guy saw in her and it had been so obvious, and she’d been so blind. Willfully blind. God.

They left the walled garden and reentered the building. They walked through the empty main room, the lobby, Sewanee’s eye on the double doors in front of her. She had to get out of here.

“Before you leave, what is it now, for the tenth time . . . ?” Nick tried to poke a hole in the tension, but she saw no humorous light come through it. “Please think about this: how it began doesn’t matter. It doesn’t! Because remember when you got the text from your friend who couldn’t make it to dinner?” Sewanee held up her hand, willing him to stop. That text had been yet another of her lies.

Nick ignored her hand. “Did I leave you then? Did I walk away? No! I asked for the check and I went with you to dinner, because I wanted to, because I wanted to be with you at that point!”

“Because I was what was left!”

Sewanee breached the front doors and noticed a taxi pulling up and all rational thought fled. She wanted to escape and this was the fastest way. “I can’t do this. I need some time to–it’s too much, it’s, it’s . . .” As she got to the cab, the door opened.

“Swan!” Mitzi croaked, heaving herself out. “You look like leftovers. Like something someone scraped off a plate. Nice dress, though.”

“Thanks,” she mumbled.

As the driver brought her walker around the cab, Mitzi leaned on Sewanee and her eyes landed on Nick. “Hoo hah, what’s this?”

Sewanee caught the driver’s eye. “Are you free?”

“Sure, climb in.”

“Sewanee–” Nick began, but Sewanee cut him a look that could shatter glass. She turned back to Mitzi, who was now settled on her walker.

“See you Friday, Mitzi.”

Mitzi gave Nick an elevator glance. “Bring whatever this is.”

Sewanee ducked into the cab and slammed the door. Nick scrabbled to the window, said, through it, “Did I plan to have anything other than a drink? Did I plan anything beyond dinner? I was leaving! Did I plan the snow?!”

Sewanee told the driver where to go and the cab started to pull away. Nick slapped the top of it. “Sewanee! Come on!” But Sewanee shooed the cabbie onward.

She turned around, as if she actually had something to yell back at him, and watched his hands find his hips as he called out, “What do I need to do?” Then his attention turned to Mitzi, who was tugging on his jacket.

“So. You single?”





Chapter Thirteen


“The Break”

IT WAS 3:15 A.M. AND SEWANEE LOOKED AT THE CLOCK ONCE AGAIN. She was sure it had been at least forty-five minutes since the last time she’d looked.

It had been twelve.

Thoughts moved in and out of her mind like hummingbirds at a feeder.

He didn’t pity her. Did he? No, he didn’t. The way he had been with her, his touch, his care, his determination. None of it had felt like pity. She knew the difference.

But she hadn’t been his first choice. He’d wanted Adaku. She’d been a consolation prize.

And what about their goodbye in Vegas? Why didn’t he give her his number? Why didn’t he ask for hers?

She flipped over. Pulled her pillow tight. Closed her eye.

Images of the two of them, together, rushed in.

Sitting opposite him in the soaking tub, afterward.

The texture of his skin made slick by the water.

Her fingers tracing the hollow of his throat.

She flopped over, hoping to leave her mind on the other side. But the words they’d exchanged came through like taunting ghosts.

He’d said, I’d love to continue this, but . . .

She’d said, no of course.

He’d said, it’s probably better to leave it.

She, crushed under the weight of her lies, could only agree.

Then he’d touched her scar. Simple, unencumbered, natural.

Then Blah screamed, Monster.

She opened her eye. 3:18 A.M. Unbelievable.

She flipped once more, reached compulsively for her phone, but there was no message since the one Carlos had sent hours ago: Blah had stabilized, she hadn’t needed to go to the hospital. But they’d keep the Ativan in her for a few more days. Probably best if Sewanee gave her some space.

No message from “Brock,” either.

How would she get over being someone’s–God, she’d hated the term since the first time she’d heard it from some walking jockstrap in junior high–sloppy seconds?

But that wasn’t it. That wasn’t even the right terminology. What was she trying to . . .

She’d been used. That was it, that’s what had happened. Plain and simple. She’d been used by a man who knew exactly what he was doing. He was Brock McFuckingNight. He’d appeared to her like a hero out of a Romance novel because that was precisely what he was. That’s all he was. But she? She was all too real.